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“Who do you think their source is?”
“God only knows.” My money’s on Kristal. “Cass thinks it’s just lucky guesses.”
“Lucky, hm?”
I squint at Gideon’s smirk. “Not this time.”
“Prove it. Surrender your ring finger.”
I surrender my middle one instead.
It’s a ridiculous, unfounded rumor. Outrageous, really. Outer space level out there. Particularly because since our hospital visit, nothing remotely akin to the type ofactivitiesengaged couples might partake in has occurred. Cass has developed the very irritating habit of treating me like I might shatter with too hard a touch.
I learned very quickly over the last month, though, that there are different, scarier kinds of intimacy. Like nightly foot rubs while we watch a movie on the sofa with August. Like grocery shopping with someone who knows you prefer smooth peanut butter over crunchy and brown sugar over white. Like browsing baby names and researching birth plans in bed together, more often than not falling asleep together too even though we both still very much have our own rooms. Like waking up with his hand holding mine, locked fingers resting on my bump, and a very funny feeling in my chest.
More than once, it strikes me that we’re not doing the fake dating thing very well. Somewhere along the line, the organized outings stopped. Although, when I really think about it, I suppose they never truly started. There was our date and that’s it. Nothing else was orchestrated, or at least not my knowledge. Everything else just… happened.
Everything else feels very, very real.
Which, considering our circumstances, considering the timeline that suddenly feels extremely accelerated, is very, very dangerous.
As dangerous as the way my heart pounds and my entire body lights up when, at the end of the day, I waddle out of the school to find Cass waiting the way he always is, leaning against his Jeep with his hands in his pockets and a hat on his head and a big, goofy smile on his handsome face.
He’s humming something and as I get closer, I realize it’s the tune of Freedom, and it catches me so off-guard, I forget I’m supposed to be actively trying not to fall in love with him. “George Michael?” I snicker, easily herded into his arms, more than compliant as he palms my cheeks, my hair, my belly. “Really? You just aged yourself by, like, twenty years.”
Unbothered by our current location, Cass sneakily slaps my ass and stoops to murmur in my ear, “You got an age kink or something, baby? You bring mine up an awful lot.”
“I have a sore spot for the elderly. Sue me.”
Cass throws his head back and laughs, and I bask in the sound like a freaking swooning loser, transfixed by the curve of his neck, the harsh slant of his jaw, the silliest, most inconsequential things that I find so obscenely attractive. Those eyes are my favorite, though, especially when they’re wholly focused on me like they are now, gleaming in the sun. “You wanna come watch me practice?”
Whoosh. Harsh, cold reality displaces my rose-tinted glasses. “No, thanks.”
The voice in the back of my mind nagging me about Cass’ return to baseball is enough; I don’t need a physical reminder too.
It’s not that I don’t want him to play. It’s not that I think he’s going to step foot in San Francisco, step foot on that field, and suddenly decide to stay there. It’s just… okay, maybe I do think that.Fearthat. I know it’s just one game—theAll Star Game, August squeals at least a dozen times a day—but it’s also not. It’s a glimpse at the future; a lonely, Cass-less future.
If my refusal disappoints him, he doesn't show it. He just accepts it, extending the same offer to August—who also refuses, due to him spending yet another night at Izzy’s—before helping me into his car and driving us home, ready to repeat the same routine that I’m suddenly painfully aware is not as everlasting as it feels.
* * *
As promised, it’s late when I hear a car pulling into the driveway.
Ceasing the pensive staring I’m doing at my bedroom ceiling, I quickly flick off the lamp onmybedside table, roll to face away frommydoor, huddled beneathmycomforter, and squeeze my eyes shut.
I don’t actually think Cass is going to barge in here, demanding to know why I’m in my own bed—that would be a little dramatic, even for him. I do think he might knock if he sees the light on. I do know I’d invite him in, and probably into my bed too.
So I’m doing the mature thing; pretending to be asleep.
I tense as footsteps climb the stairs and start down the hall towards me. They pause outside my room, and I imagine him frowning at the closed door. I imagine that frown deepening as he walks to his room and I’m nowhere to be found. I wonder if he’s surprised. Confused. Disappointed or relieved.
As his door clicks shut, I decide it must be the latter. What I remain undecided about, though, is how I feel about that.
When I hear the faint sound of his shower spluttering to life, I heave a deep breath. Rolling onto my back, I huff at the ceiling, and at myself, because c’mon, Sunday. This is what you wanted. This was the objective; sleep alone for once. Reinforce your boundaries. Create some distance now so when it’s forced upon you, you suffer a little less.
I’m so lost in my head, I don’t hear the shower shut off. I don’t hear Cass’ door open again. Not until mine opens a couple of seconds later do I tune back in.
It takes an ungodly amount of effort to stay still as someone—Cass, I know it’s Cass, my whole room suddenly smells like goddamn Sea & Dune—crawls into my bed. I forbid my breath from catching when an arm slips around my waist and gently tugs me back against a hard, bare chest. But despite my best efforts, he sees right through me. “I know you’re awake.”
